The Fear
by Connor Asfadjnis
Summary: You embrace the darkness. It rewards you thusly.


Your name is Sliske.

Yours is an old name, given to you in hope. What that hope was, you cannot remember. You never wanted to be beholden to ancient promises.

In Freneskae, however, that's all anyone ever did. They followed the "old ways", paid homage to a dead god, kissed the footsteps of those above them. (You've heard legend of a woman made of light who passed the traditions of your people down, and your skepticism increases).

Your brother thinks that Mah is not real, but you know better. From the day you were born, you were able to walk in the shadows, and no one cast a greater shadow than Mah.

It is here, in dark Freneskae, that you discover your affinity for the Shadow Realm. All Mahjarrat have the ability, but only you can bend it around your finger like it is an extension of your being. Some of the more conservative of the Children of Mah warn that one who does as you do with the shadows will eventually lose themselves, will forget where the shadows end and they begin. This is the first thing in your life that makes you really properly angry; the idea that the fearful and weak can control you with words. You always campaign that they end up on the altar first, even long after the anger has collapsed into dull dead spite.

So it is you turn to your brother. Wahisietel, who never shies from a mystery. You keep each other's company for centuries, rarely talking to others about anything important. Wahisietel's theories about Mah would not go unpunished for long amongst the others, and you, well. The Mahjarrat, try as you will, rarely do as you would wish them.

Impossibly, you grow bored with challenge. There is a predictability in unpredictability, you find. There is nothing someone else will do that is half as interesting as what you would have them do instead.

Then they came.

Icthlarin and Amascut, foolish godlings from a world so far removed from Freneskae it makes your head spin. (Something in the fabric of the world tells you this place is like a twin to your home, but your mind twists at the implication.) You can practically see Wahisietel drool at the very thought of it.

It is the appeal to violence that persuades the rest of your clansmen, though, and so you travel through their portal.

Gielinor is lush, fertile, and crawling with lesser life. At first you are bored with the godlings' piddling war, until you come to understand what you face in the eyes and cries and deaths of your enemies. You see the face of your enemy in them, and you like it.

It is during this war that you find your first wight.

She is a warrior, like the others, but far more accomplished. She fights legions of your forces off with hardly a thought. Her weapon is nothing special either, you checked.

Moreover, she is a human. An ant. The humans were by far the most boring species on Gielinor. Wahisietel seems to like them for whatever reason, but you cannot imagine why.

Your brother teases you, says you are falling in love with the enemy. You consider this carefully, and put it away for the time being.

You find her, at the end of a particularly long battle. Your own forces were victorious, but at a heavy cost. She rests, wounded, at the base of a hill, sword jammed in an irritatingly poetic way into the ground.

"You're interesting," you declare to her.

"Flee this place, shade," she spits. "I still have the strength in me to put my sword in your chest."

You have to wonder if she had ever seen a Mahjarrat before. "I demand an answer," you say. "Why am I so interested in you? What have you done? I find this rather distressing and would like it to be cleared up posthaste, thank you."

She looks at you, confused. "Deceiver," she hissed. "I will give you one more chance." You catch her badly hidden attempt to grab her sword. It ends in pain, if the sudden flinch is anything to go by.

A hero, then. You know the type. Before long she'll say something like 'justice will prevail' and 'evil-doer' and something something innocent and free people.

The rest of your forces are closing in. They appear briefly through the trees, seemingly (finally) catching on to their prey's trail. Whatever you're going to do, you must do it quickly.

You walk over to her. She closes her eyes.

When she opens them, her wounds are healed. Better, even – she feels ten years younger, as though the deep weariness that set upon her soul had lifted and all the world was new before her eyes. She now clenches very specific runes in her left hand, just barely enough.

She looks at you with something in her eyes. She doesn't give you time to decode it, because before long she's gone, vanishing in purple light, as is the custom of the Zarosians.

The celebration that night rings hollow. You stare into your cup of vile alcohol and your mind is elsewhere.

…

You find her again, much to your delight. She yet fights, even better now. Reports come in from your forces, bad ones by all accounts.

This time, when you track her down, she stands in victory, one of the few the Zarosians enjoyed during the war. Her forces, clustered around her, cheer her on.

Soon they are dead, and she is screaming.

The screams collapse into something coherent. "You!" she cries. "Why have you come here?!"

She drops the whole hero thing for a second, before your very eyes. For a second, you feel you are witnessing something sacred, something personal. It's disconcerting, and you hope it doesn't last for long.

"What do you want from me?" she asks. A single tear drains down her cheek, with the promise of more to come, given time.

"I don't know!" you cry. You are frustrated, too. "Who are you? From where do you come?"

"I am Velara of Forinthry," she replies. She has drawn her sword; you barely notice.

"No! No! I don't want that!" You hiss. "Tell me, who are you! Why are you so… interesting!"

"It is not for me to decode the minds of psychopaths," she snarls. "Your interest is your own. I have nothing to do with it."

Join me, you want to say. No, more. Become mine. Become as the shadows are to me. Your actions are mine, your thoughts are mine. You are no more Velara of Forinthry than I am, because you will _become me_.

The winds rustle as though nothing of importance were going on. The silence roars in your ears. She is looking at you, again with that look that resists interpretation.

Instead you say, "Goodbye," and disappear.

…

The third time's the charm, as they say.

You find her wounded again, this time mortally. It has become clear the Zarosians are losing this campaign. They cling stubbornly to what they can. In this, you see their master, and you like him even more.

She does not speak as you approach, just lays her head down. You walk as if in a dream, the still-raging battle around you is nothing.

"I want you," you say simply.

She says nothing, just narrows her eyes.

"Not in that way, sicko. I… want you." You leave the sentence hanging. You want to, need to explain it. Every definition you can think of falls short. It is the first time you have failed yourself, and you take careful note of it.

She coughs, and speaks finally. "I hate you," she whispers. "I hate you more deeply than anything I have ever known."

"Well, yeah," he said. "Anyway, before you so rudely interrupted, I was going to say this.

"Imagine, for a moment, you are – ah, acquaintances with someone. Co-workers, maybe. And you can't stand them. You're not sure completely why, perhaps they hum under their breath when they think nobody is listening, or maybe they smell like fish, who knows? And you want, so badly, to know what they're thinking. Do they bathe in fish every day? Why is that song such a masterpiece in their eyes? And as the days go by, the want grows deeper. You want to know more about them. Maybe about the way they wake up in the morning, their routines, their loves, their hopes, their hates. And, surprisingly, the more you imagine, the more fleshed-out those fantasies become, the more you hate them! Interesting, right?"

Her breaths grow ragged. You hasten onward.

"The point is, your interest becomes an obsession. This person is no longer a person, but they're not an _it_ , either, they're – ugh, the pains of being a poet – they're part of you. You can't imagine your life without them, what you thought about before you met them.

"For most people there's only one option, which is nothing. Kill them, maybe, it happens often enough. But for me…" your eyes gleam – "there are certain… options."

There is fear in her eyes. Good. You feel closer already.

With one quick twist of your hand, you feel her soul wrench. She opens her mouth to scream, but nothing comes out – her body becomes twisted and morphed beyond repair. The will leaves her eyes, and something new takes its place.

Your new and first wight bows before you.

"I can tell this will be the start of a beautiful relationship," you say.

…

"I don't care for the wights," Wahisietel says, later.

You have been gathering them for almost a year now. The power, you find, doesn't work on Mahjarrat – at least, not to any degree you'd like to pursue it to for now – but on humans, it's oh so perfect.

Your brother says this slyly, drops it conversationally into what you had assumed was an informal meeting. Wahisietel is good at this, layering his words until even you have trouble discerning what is true. He is a born diplomat, you reflect ruefully.

"Why ever not?" you ask, taking a sip of tea. The liquid was one of the few human consumables you can tolerate. The warmth is soothing, and if you drink enough of it, it feels like your whole being shares that warmth. "They're an asset. Certainly in the realm of… psychological warfare."

"They're unnatural," he says in reply. "We are creatures of war, not creatures of subversion. Especially not where death is concerned."

A riddle, then. You suppose that someone must be listening, or have an opportunity to be listening. Icthlarin doesn't trust you as much as he can throw you, although in fairness you are not quite sure just how strong the dog god's throwing arm is. The metaphor stands.

"You have never been concerned about undermining death before," you reply. "Why, on Freneskae, I believe you protested the cruelties of the Ritual in particular."

"You know that's not what I mean," Wahisietel says carefully. "The process of passing on is being interrupted. I do not think anyone deserves that."

"Who cares what they deserve?" you ask flippantly. "No one deserves anything. We live in a blind and uncaring universe, and we might as well look out for ourselves."

"I disagree."

"Surely you don't believe in a higher purpose or anything like that?"

"Not particularly. But if we live in a blind and uncaring universe, then I rather think we ought to look out for each other."

You search for a hidden meaning in this, and find none. You finish the rest of your tea in silence.

…

You are furious. More furious than you have ever been. You feel helpless in your anger, and paradoxically it grows all the stronger.

He had no right. _NO. DAMN. RIGHT._

They were yours, the wights. You won them by rights. (Hah, that rhymes, part of you says in desperation.) Each handpicked, each interesting in their own way. You owned them, body and soul, and then _he_ came in and just took them.

It doesn't matter to you what he has done with them or why he took them to begin with. All you know is that you have been wronged. Your property is gone, forever.

The war is won. Of course it is. Icthlarin was content to employ your wights when they were helpful, but _now_ his conscience kicks in. But you think it's not about conscience, oh no. That dog had his eyes on you since you first came here. He knew you meddled in places you did not belong, places he would prefer to keep to himself.

You never think perhaps it was truly the wights which offended him, his station being a god of death and keeper of the slain. For minds like yours, control is what matters, and since Icthlarin has taken your pawns it must be in service of a personal insult to you.

You pace in solitude in your home, wonderfully situated near the ocean. Thoughts race around your mind like planets in a screaming orbit, the burning focus of hate keeping them bound in gravity.

You could not live like this. Icthlarin beat you, he – in that instance – controlled you. You had to make your move now.

You remember the Zarosians, and the face of their master, and the first inklings of a plan emerge.

…

Centuries later, you hear the name.

The words of a madman are hardly what you expected to occupy your mind of late. You have heard many words from many such people, and you didn't think much of them until now.

The name haunts your thoughts, however. You idly wonder if it is like a virus, a carrier of mental disorder that will soon spread to the rest of your mind. You're tempted to wonder if you are mad already, but that seems like a boring thought process. Mad or not, you shall continue as you are. You are, after all, the only one who knows how to have _fun_ here.

Still, you think a visit to another madman may be in order. Such it is you stand in front of Nabor, keeper of the asylum.

He isn't looking well these days. Perhaps the running of the place was getting to him; after all, the Zarosian Empire didn't have much room for those who weren't of sound mind, and the care of those who aren't was not for a compassionate heart. Not here.

"Nabor!" you say cheerfully, striding into his office like you owned the place. "How good it is to see you!"

"Sliske," he says, dour as usual. He offers a lukewarm "likewise".

"I have some questions for you," you say. "How often do prophetic visions occur amongst your patients?"

This seems to shake him out of stupor. "I can't say there are many," he says. "Although-" a sensible chuckle – "most here seem to believe there is something prophetic about their visions." He laughs. You fight the urge to cringe.

"Yes, well," you say. "Do you know of any mechanism that someone experiencing, say, post-traumatic stress disorder may be able to – ah, see further than others?"

"I had taken you as a man of science, Sliske!" Nabor sounds scandalized, though in a uniquely bored-sounding way. "I'm sure there is no such thing. Why do you ask?"

You are certain you don't want him to know anything about what you're thinking. "Thank you, Nabor," you say, and the words feel strange in your mouth.

As you leave, you pause to say this. "I'd watch out for Azzanadra, by the way. I don't think he cares for you very much."

Nabor ignores you, unsurprisingly.

…

When _he_ is born, you are beyond surprised.

You had taken Nabor's words to heart, something you so rarely did with others. After all, when the Wars descended and the world was pushed to the brink of ending, you didn't have much time to worry about the name that had so plagued your thoughts in another time and place.

You had to admit, after the Wars ended and the gods were banished, you found yourself quite unsure of what to do. There were times when you thrived in this environment of tasklessness, but in other times you thought yourself rather… lost.

You found more wights, of course. The heroes and villains who so resembled the woman from so long ago almost invariably found themselves in your collection, but they were discarded. The brothers were your best ones yet, so fraught with conflict and pettiness, even if they didn't know it. They would have brought themselves down eventually, you saw it in front of them as clearly as a normal person sees a wall in their path. Now they are more – and less – than they ever could have hoped for. They are a part of you, and far more interesting for it.

But there was still something missing. Something that tugged at your soul. You didn't think of the name at first, but when he was born bearing it…

Wheels began to turn. A plan you'd been toying with took form.

And so you killed me.

…

There is something intimate in taking another being's life, I think you will agree.

Killing is a senseless act. There is no need to agree with me here, I know we could argue until the Revision. It brings with it a kind of ridiculousness, the idea that in the great wide universe, where we are born by accident into a world we don't understand and perpetuate ourselves only by the grace of others, one would choose to end another. Hippie stuff, I know. Bear with me for a second.

I think there is something intimate in _being_ killed, as well. Having your life ripped from you, it is difficult not to feel the weight of someone's soul in the instant before death, perhaps because nobody is interested in disguising themselves from you when you won't exist in a few seconds.

I know you, Sliske. I know what you hope to accomplish. And so I speak to you now.

Oh heavens, not _literally_ , of course. There's no time for that. Not when your presence here is as fleeting as you are anywhere else. (Perhaps, deep in your soul, you feel shame. But that's a conversation for another day.)

He has lingered in your mind for almost longer than you can remember; it seems to you like you have known him before he was born, before you heard his name from Nabor for the first time, even. There is no part of your life that has not been touched by him, no thought unchanged by what you heard from the madman at the asylum. No part of your past is considered without the name, no part of your future is free from his presence.

It infuriates you.

For what is thought, but the sum of a person? You feel like a wight, like you serve him more than you do yourself. Your mind should belong to you alone, but of late it feels like you're sharing. And you never share.

So you follow him. You wanted to make him your wight, at the Ritual, but you realized that wasn't enough. There would be questions unanswered, paths left unfollowed. You would not be free by making him your slave, you would merely bind yourself to him forever with no hope of release.

No, you want a different strategy. You want to know him.

You want to anticipate him, to so completely _understand_ him that nothing he does will ever surprise you, nothing he does will be contrary to your desires because your desires were set with him in mind.

That is better than wight-making. You can't believe you haven't thought of it before.

A word of caution, then, from murderer to murderer.

You predicate yourself on slavery. You cannot conceive of a relationship that is not between master and slave, between controller and controlled. Life is a battle of will, and it cannot be otherwise, not for you, lest you lose to someone better than you. And I believe there is nothing that you fear more than that.

What will happen to you when you do?

What will happen to you when your newest pet resists your analysis? When he breaks your game, wrecks your toys and sees you for what you are?

You see the same thing that I do, Sliske. This one is different.

I don't know what will happen next. Perhaps that is a blessing. I go to my rest now; perhaps, to see my daughter again, to tell her how sorry I am. This is your story now.

I hope, perhaps foolishly, that you will see something of what I see in this place. Understand what I understand. I believe that something of me has come across to you, in this act of killing. If I am wrong, than perhaps something of him will.

I do hope you know what you're doing.

 **Hiya! Some notes.**

 **This is a character study, something I don't think I've ever done before. Given that, I wanted to try something different. Hence, the second person POV. Although, there was another reason for that, too. It was a toss-up between this and first person, since I very specifically wanted to get inside of Sliske's mind in a way that third-person really can't. First person, though, seemed… wrong. It's a bit tough to explain, but I felt like Sliske describing himself, even as honestly as he feels he can, would be too bound up in how Sliske feels and the way he'd want to resist anyone truly coming to understand him. Someone else, someone close to him who isn't afraid to see him for what he is, either by bias (himself), loyalty (another Zarosian Mahjarrat), or fear (everyone else probably), seemed appropriate to tell this story.**

 **My point I guess is that this is somewhat experimental to me. I think it turned out well enough, but ultimately that's up to you!**

 **Anyway, I was thinking about turning this into a series, each chapter focusing on a new character, and each one, like this one, being a bit experimental in how I write based on what character I'm describing. We'll see; I've got other stuff I want to do, too, as well as my impending return to school.**

 **Anyway, that's all for now. Be excellent to each other!**


End file.
